


Flight 2625 to Amsterdam

by strawberrycupcake_huckleberrypie



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Airplanes, Alternate Universe - Ben Solo Doesn't Turn to the Dark Side, Chance Meetings, F/M, Falling In Love, First Kiss, First Meetings, Fly the Friendly Skies, Love at 50K Feet, Love at First Sight, Meet-Cute, One Shot, POV Rey, POV Rey (Star Wars), Reylo - Freeform, We'll Now Begin Your Complimentary In-Flight Love Connection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-14
Updated: 2018-05-14
Packaged: 2019-05-06 21:23:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14656509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strawberrycupcake_huckleberrypie/pseuds/strawberrycupcake_huckleberrypie
Summary: Rey shot out a hand to assist the drink making its way above her, from the attendant in the aisle beside her to the neighbor on her right, the importance of this transaction only slightly less than an Olympic baton in a relay race.“Mmm. Thank you,” Rey heard him mumble politely.Her right hand skimmed his fingers as she handed him the cup, her eyes flying to his own behind rimless glasses, so close yet somehow a face she'd yet to glimpse tonight. Not as they were seated, as they ascended, not as they flew across the border towards the dark Atlantic, not until this moment as Rey hands him a drink and hears his voice and sees his eyes.





	Flight 2625 to Amsterdam

**Author's Note:**

> Discord Writing Den's prompt fill challenge = <2K words for "In the Dark"
> 
> thanks to [@Poaxath](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Poaxath/pseuds/Poaxath) for her beta assist. <3
> 
> xo  
> Berry

 

 

 

 

“Water, please.”

 

What she really wanted was a Coke.

Something sugary and caffeinated to burn all the way down and reward her for flying tonight.

 

Rey didn’t even want to be on this flight, still not sure if she was doing the right thing flying to Amsterdam for her grandfather’s funeral, a man she'd never met, but here she was giving a responsible, reasonable drink request to the flight attendant like that’s what she was, responsible and reasonable.

 

“Thank you,” she replied to the woman in the pencil skirt, as she took the ice water, her eyes dragged to the tantalizing red, shiny cans perspiring on the cart.

 

“Here’s your seltzer water, sir,” the flight attendant murmured to Rey’s neighbor.

 

Rey shot out a hand to assist the drink making its way above her, from the attendant in the aisle beside her to the neighbor on her right, the importance of this transaction only slightly less than an Olympic baton in a relay race.

 

“Mmm, thank you,” Rey heard him mumble politely.

Her right hand skimmed his fingers as she handed him the cup, her eyes flying to his own behind rimless glasses, so close yet somehow a face she'd yet to glimpse tonight. Not as they were seated, as they ascended, not as they flew across the border towards the dark Atlantic, not until this moment as Rey hands him a drink and hears his voice and sees his eyes.

 

It's dark.

 

So dark, all around. Inside, outside, so dark.

 

And so quiet, only the engine’s mechanical hum in the recycled air’s chill, the single overhead light the only respite from the endless tunnel of yawning night all around the plane as they soar.

 

 

Rey averts her eyes as her fingers recede from his.

 

Her arm tingles as she realizes she’s sent a message to her brain to be on alert, every cell in her body attuned to his presence beside her. His tall and broad frame dwarfs hers, his scent drifting towards her in a wave of masculinity, his features, even in the half light of one illuminated reading light above enough for Rey to feel her heart thud into her throat.

 

She sips the water gratefully.

 

“Thanks,” he speaks.

 

Rey’s eyes flit carefully beside to his face. _Was he speaking to her?_

 

He’s peeking at her from behind his glasses, his face barely turned.

 

“You’re…welcome,” she says, her words concrete. “Business or pleasure?” she asks.

 

He turns, his lips and regal brow coming into view, dark hair brushing the collar of his button-down. It's dark in the cabin, but Rey can tell his shirt is crisply ironed. Or starched. Even at night, traveling internationally, he’s dressed professionally. Her eyes slide over his neat hands, beautiful fingers, expensive watch face, dark slacks.

 

 _He’s rich, then,_ she thinks, reserving the right to dismiss him, yet anxious to like him.

 

He hasn't answered.

“Your travel…for business or pleasure?” she adds.

 

“Oh,” he understands, clearing his throat, looking past her to collect an answer. His features work through a variety of movements before nearly smiling as he responds. “Business. Certainly not pleasure.”

 

“Ah,” Rey says. “What do you do for business?” she asks, raising an eyebrow over her cup as she takes a sip, careful not to let the ice bump her nose.

 

“I’m a CPA,” he says, which makes sense, seeing his attire. “Taxes, you know.”

 

Rey knows nothing about taxes.

She’s a musical performance student, violin concentration.

She has nothing to talk about with a CPA.

 

“And yourself?” he asks, still watching her. “Business or pleasure?”

 

“Neither,” Rey exhales hard. “Death.”

 

He quirks an eyebrow at her unbothered announcement and she snorts softly as she shrugs.

 

“Grandfather. Never knew him. Kicked the ol’ bucket,” she tells him blithely, conveying much more amusement than she feels, much less sadness than this news brought her.

 

“Oh. Wow, sorry,” he says with a minor stutter, looking away and sipping his own bubbly water.

 

“S’alright,” Rey assures him, “but, thank you.”

 

 

It's dark.

 

So dark as they wing over the water, and there are so many hours yet to fly.

 

Rey looks at the stranger beside her and reaches out a hand.

“I’m Rey,” she offers, sucking in a breath as he grasps it in return as quickly as she extends it.

 

 _Is he anxious, too?_ It’s the warmest hand, the largest in recent memory to take hers.

 

“Ben,” he tells her, still holding her hand.

 

“Ben,” she repeats, trying it out, rewinding her life to pin that name on anyone else remotely significant and failing.

 

He’s _The Ben_ then.

The one to own that name in her universe, apparently.

Title-owner.

 

“Are you from Tampa?” he asks, finally releasing her hand.

 

“Yeah, student,” she tells him. “Grad student. You?”

 

“Yes,” he says, “Tampa. Well, near enough.” 

 

Rey bites her bottom lip, thinking how many men she’s met the last five years in Tampa. The matched-online dates, Tinder hookups, the professors, instructors, blind dates, frat boys, dudes and fuckboys whose paths she’s crossed, and no one has exuded as much magnetic energy as Ben, seat B, row 20.

She studies his eyes.

 

 _God, you could make_ _decisions_ _based on his eyes._

 _You could get into trouble and end up with fucking ramifications because of those eyes,_ she thinks.

 

Her eyes flicker to his left hand.

No ring.

No tan line, either, which is important to note, she’s learned.

 

And hell, she goes ahead and takes a glance at his pants.

No telling much, though, not with a tray table extended over his lap.

 

_Damn._

 

 

Her eyes make a circuit back to his face as she gives an innocent smile and moves to sip her water.

 

 

“What are you studying?” Ben asks.

 

“Violin,” Rey answers, watching for reaction.

 _What do you do with a violin degree?_ so many asked when she pursued this dream. _How will that get you ahead in life?_

 

“Impressive,” he says with a nod, “tricky instrument.”

 

“You know it?” she asks, intrigued. Almost no adults she knows play.

 

“Absolutely,” Ben says, “I played all of about 6 months in middle school.”

 

She chuckles.

So does he.

 

 

Even his laugh is alluring, rumbling and potent.

Rey squeezes her thighs together and gives far too breathless a giggle against her will, annoyed she sounds more like a bar stool flirt than a serious musician.

 

 

“How long have you played?” he asks.

 

“All my life?” Rey says, almost a question, asking permission to be a music nerd, forgiveness for being impassioned. “Since I can remember.”

 

“Wow,” Ben replies, raising his eyebrows in a gesture implying he’s further impressed. “I haven’t done _anything_ that long.”

 

“Well, it’s been my constant,” Rey says. “Lugged it from foster home to foster home and played until each family kicked me out with all the racket," she adds before she can stop herself.

She smiles brightly, but his eyes turn sorrowful and she hurries to change the subject.

 

“What about you,” she asks, before emptying her water, “any instrument?”

 

“Uh, I played drums,” Ben tells her, rolling his head on his shoulders in embarrassment. “In high school. Emo rock band, you know. Rebellion, angst, acting out, that sort of thing. ‘The Knights of Ren’, we were called.”

 

Rey smiles, amused.

 

“Oh yeah?”

She likes this. “Any recordings I can hear?” she asks hopefully, needling him.

 

“Fuck, I hope not,” he says, finishing by reaching for his drink and draining it.

Rey’s heart speeds at his profanity, a jolt to her center, a vision of his mouth saying dirty words sending her mind directly into the gutter, no passing Go, no collecting 200 dollars just immediately getting naked with him in her head.

 

She gulps slightly wishing for more water, suddenly dehydrated.

 

“What about you,” he asks, turning to face her more fully, “any recordings?”

 

Rey smirks and rolls her eyes. “You don’t want to hear.”

 

“C’mon, sure I do,” he says.

 

“No,” Rey whines half-heartedly.

 

“Please?” he asks, all charm, the kind grown men can still access, leaving grown women a puddle.

 

“Alright,” Rey says, acquiescing, reaching for her phone, “but it’s not a quality recording.”

 

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he smiles.

 

Rey plugs earbuds into her iPhone port and pulls up her latest recordings, scrolls through to _Concerto #2, Summer from Vivaldi’s Four Seasons_ and hands Ben the earbuds.

 

 

This is her favorite piece, the one she finds herself moving to when she’s alone as if she were a dancer, moody, glorious and emotional.

She fucking _owns_ it when she plays. And she knows it.

 

Ben puts an earbud in and hands her the other one, watching her eyes as she presses play and takes the second ear piece, their fingers grazing. Rey’s heart skips a beat at his barest touch.

 

She inserts the earbud and leans closer, their shoulders skimming as the music begins.

 

 

It's dark.

 

So dark, and the music fills the space around them immediately, the notes a secret between them, surrounded by a cabin of strangers. All the while in Row 20, seats B and C, Ben and Rey are lulled by the strains of the concerto they alone hear, a mystery shared only by them, a crescendo only theirs, 50,000 feet above the dark ocean.

 

Rey’s eyes concentrate on Ben’s hand, rolling the white cord between his finger and thumb while her own hand inches towards his on the arm rest.

 

 

Her fingers move towards his or his towards hers and then his pinky finger brushes her knuckle and the music builds.

 

Rey slowly inches her hand just a bit further, ever so slightly, and now all four of his fingers graze her knuckles, caress, touch.

 

She doesn’t move.

She doesn’t look at him.

_What if he stops?_

 

She glances at the phone.

One minute more.

 

And then, it ends.

 

 

She hits stop on her phone and pops out the earbud, smiling when Ben looks at her.

 

He meets her eyes and leaves his hand where hers is beneath it.

 

“Beautiful,” he tells her simply.

 

Rey leans into him.

 

“Another?” he asks.

Rey moves to place the earbud back into her ear and plays the next piece, the phone dropping into her lap.

 

Ben glances at her face again as his fingers slip over her knuckles, settling between hers on the armrest, his silent request.

 

Her only response is to nudge her shoulder harder into him, leaning into him more.

 

 

It's dark.

 

And then, it’s not.

It's brightening.

 

Ben has been kissing Rey for an hour now, her face in his hands. Their third anonymous aisle mate is completely ignored while they learn the planes of one another’s faces, lips, hands, elbows, the music forgotten, the night ended.

 

“When will your conference be over?” Rey asks as she pulls back to study his now-familiar eyes. They're lighter than the onyx they were overnight, tired and slightly bloodshot as hers must also be from sleeplessness.

 

“Not soon enough,” he murmurs, pulling her back to his lips, kissing her again.

 

“When can I see you?” Rey asks bravely, “I want to see you. _Can_ I see you?”

She’s emboldened by the fear she’ll never find him again, he’ll be lost to her.

 

“Oh, I’m not leaving you,” he says, “fuck the conference, I’ll blow it off.” Ben cradles her face and kisses her deeply.

 

“Are you sure? Ben?” she asks, nervous for him to do such a reckless thing.

 

“The only sure things are death and taxes and we’ve already checked those boxes. So, yeah,” he tells her, kissing her between statements, “I’ll take my chances.”

 

Rey smiles.

 

 

It's light when they walk the jetway, hands laced, to find coffee.

 

It was dark and now, it’s light.

 

 

************************


End file.
